The first time we heard The Antlers it was because of an American we had coffee with. She was a good friend of the band, and would later translate some of our articles. She gave us a copy, and we knew that sooner or later, we’d cross paths with The Antlers.
One November night in front of the Nouveau Casino, there were three of them and about fifteen of us in total. Two crews, two bands. The first jovial, chatty, and exuberant (Cymbals Eat Guitars is coming soon); the second older and more reserved, as if they were nervous about the exercise: The Antlers.
They left with Nat, wandering around Parmentier avenue, where they managed to convince the quiet and strange old owner of this doll-repair shop to let them play and let us film. The camera battery died in the meantime, and we couldn’t film the song until the second crew arrived with Cymbals Eat Guitars, who were entertaining themselves by covering Pavement at the top of their lungs in the street.
To film The Antlers, you have to protect them, wrap them in a cocoon, roll up the bedclothes, close the doors, silence the outside world. It’s a sweet and affabable music that only hatches when it’s swaddled and protected, taking the time to unfold itself slowly. This began to dawn on the owners of La Caravane; they had imagined that we were going to shake the walls of their bar loose. No, in the back room, with a small light, and the delapidated walls, there was just a magnificent sound that filled up the room.
Translation by Caitlin Caven